Most of us have a story to tell about how we ended up choosing the field of special education. Especially those of us over a certain age. My own personal route began on a dirt road in Korea one wintry morning over thirty years ago. As a regular U.S. Army officer conducting reconnaissance patrols, I came across a child dead and frozen to the road. He died, I suppose, of exposure but the ice holding him fast to the dirt was to me the final indignity. I knew then that children are the forgotten victims of war. I knew then, instantly, that I wanted to help the children, not hurt them. And so I ended my military career as soon as possible and turned to education and-at least back then-to the forgotten ones of education, the kids in special education. Now I am half a world and half a lifetime away from that Korean morning. And I feel somehow vindicated that these last three decades have proved what I felt viscerally that day: the universal value of a child, any child. The completeness of his vulnerability, her endless possibilities, these are not constrained by where or who the child is. It is something that almost all of us reconize and agree to. It is why Saddam Hussein let the captive children leave Kuwait and why they were the first on the lifeboats on the Titanic and why today's political and social realities touch all children. Today's realities dictate that what happens in the rain forests of South America is as relevant to us as the unification of Germany and the drive for equality by the black South Africans. In today's society, the economy of Japan affects the financial stability of the world and the Persian Gulf, for good or ill, controls the developed countries' destiny. Today's world has at last become the global village so long envisioned. Global economies, global solutions, and global awareness of the value of the next generation become more obvious and more necessary with each passing minute. At last humanity is forced to recognize the significance of the insignificant: This one tiny insignificant planet is our village. But a village can be a good place to grow up. Consider the mores of villages and small towns: All children are watched over and watched out for by all the villagers. If Tommy swings a cat, Tommy's mother will know and soon, because someone in the village will tell her preferably not the cat's owner). Now that our village has grown to encompass our fragile world, Tommy's cat-swinging is not a local problem; it's not a Belgian problem, a Mexican problem nor even tile cat owner's problem. Tommy's behavior becomes the problem of whoever can offer the best solution. That is what a child-centered global village can offer us. Children in the mines and factories are not allowed now. Children as small adults to be seen and not heard is a discredited philosophy. Indeed, the village is moving toward a recognition of the rights of children. And when the child-centered global village does come, CEC must be ready. It is time now more than ever to renew our international efforts, not because they are necessary for the prestige of the association but because the children deserve the best we can give them. And in many cases the best in special education is a CEC member. Historically, CEC has had an on again, off again love affair with international special education that in many ways parallels the conflicting foreign outlook of both the U.S. and Canada. Both countries have at times in their history followed an isolationist policy. But isolationism is like the grand mansions of a century ago: Nobody can afford their upkeep. Time now for the affordability of joint commitment to agreed-upon goals. Precedent of such international commitment abounds in CEC's early history. …